


Blindfolds (And Other Neat Things)

by defyinggravitee



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM, Blindfolds, Bondage, Bottom Cecil, Carlos is a Good Boyfriend, Cecil is Human, Dom/sub, Face Slapping, Face-Fucking, Flogging, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Gags, Hair-pulling, Impact Play, M/M, Masturbation, No Tentacles, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rope Bondage, Safe Sane and Consensual, Smut, Spanking, Teasing, Top Carlos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 04:54:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8609077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defyinggravitee/pseuds/defyinggravitee
Summary: Cecil has learned a lot of neat things while blindfolded. Carlos is, after all, a very good teacher.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> “I’ve learned a lot of neat things while wearing a blindfold!” -Cecil Palmer, ep. 95 "Zookeeper"
> 
> Because no one else was giving this line the pornographic treatment it deserves, and I was forced to take matters into my own (Carlos'?) hands.
> 
> Shout to Emily for beta testing baby's first AO3 post.

The first neat thing Cecil learns while blindfolded is the way his entire body shudders when Carlos’ fingers brush the back of his neck without warning, followed closely by the way his boyfriend’s touch gives him goosebumps although the bedroom is warm.

Carlos chuckles. The sound is surprising too, Cecil’s four remaining senses running on overdrive in the absence of all shapes, all colors besides the inside of the black scarf Carlos has tied expertly around his eyes, his scientist’s hands moving deftly, accustomed to the delicate instruments of his lab.

His hands move from Cecil’s shoulders to his cheek, and he learns how it feels to kiss Carlos blindfolded, the soft, familiar shape of his boyfriend’s lips amplified tenfold, every nuance of changing pressure noticeable, every drag of his teeth across Cecil’s lower lip sending tiny shoots of pain straight down to his groin. They’ve barely started, and Cecil is already wriggling in place, his body electrified by the intensified sensory input.

“Behave yourself,” Carlos warns, his voice low and uncharacteristically dark. “Or I’ll have tie you up to keep you still.”

Cecil thinks that would be quite pleasant, actually, but he doesn’t have time to say so before Carlos’ mouth is on his again, and this time he’s even less gentle, biting hard at Cecil’s lips and sucking on his tongue, running his hands roughly across Cecil’s neck and shoulders and chest. Cecil thinks he might weep from the sensation of it all, but he also thinks he wants it to never stop, and now Carlos’ hand is sliding flat along the nape of his neck, sliding against his scalp and then pulling his fingers sharply into a fist, yanking Cecil’s follicles and drawing a high-pitched whimper from the honey-voiced radio host.

Cecil has long since been stripped of his clothes, and the next thing he learns is the feeling of Carlos’ lab coat brushing against his bare body as Carlos straddles him, the starched white cotton rubbing against the place where his skin stretches thin over his hipbones, and it’s rough like Carlos’ stubble, rough like the denim covering his thighs as he presses teasingly against Cecil’s naked cock.

Cecil moans into his boyfriend’s perfect hair as Carlos sucks purple bruises into his neck. It’s lucky he has so many colorful scarves and ties in his closet; they’re as good for emergency hickey cover-up as they are for bondage in a pinch, or so Carlos tells him, able to transform easily from fashion accessories into blindfolds, restraints, and gags and then back again, able to move the next morning from Cecil’s wrists to his neck without skipping a beat.

Skipping a beat, though, is exactly what Cecil’s heart does when he hears the sounds of Carlos undressing; the swish of his lab coat falling from his shoulders, the whisper of his T-shirt pulled over his head, the clatter of his belt buckle opening, the sound of his zipper coming undone, the shuffle of his jeans and boxers sliding down his body and finally, like the closing note of a symphony, the click of a bottle of lube flipping open. 

Then there is nothing, no sensory input at all, not sound or taste or touch or smell, for what feels like an eternity, and Cecil realizes Carlos is teasing him, and he lets out an incoherent whining noise in protest, which shifts into a nasal “Carlooooos,” and next thing he knows Carlos strikes him across the face, not hard, not enough to leave a mark or split a lip but Cecil is aroused and for all the discussion they’ve had of how much being hit turns Cecil on, he had never expected Carlos to follow through with it, or at least not so gloriously, not so suddenly and sharply and expertly in the dark.

Cecil inhales air faster than he thought was possible, and Carlos grabs him firmly by the chin and snaps his head back to center.

“I’m sorry. Was that a complaint?”

Cecil swallows. “No, Carlos.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Cecil has earned himself more teasing, Carlos’ hands ghosting over his chest, his hips, his inner thighs, and he wants to whimper, to moan, to squirm, and he’s tempted to misbehave again, curious what Carlos might do in response, but he restrains himself, keeps himself quiet, narrows his focus to the sensations and tries not grow overwhelmed by them.

He can’t help but gasp when Carlos’ hand finally makes its way to his cock, slathering cold lube over his shaft before long fingers wrap around him firmly, and he swallows curse words as Carlos’ hand works its way slowly, leisurely, up and down his dick, and he learns the exquisite pleasure to be found in the simple pump of Carlos’ hand when he cannot watch, cannot anticipate his next movement.

“You like this, baby?” Carlos whispers, his lips centimeters from Cecil’s ear. He nods enthusiastically, and all at once Carlos removes his hand and shifts his body so that Cecil loses nearly all his touch at once, everything but Carlos’ thighs over his, their chests no longer pressed together, Carlos’ face no longer near his neck.

“Beg for it, then.”

Cecil wants to cry out, or wants to cry, or maybe both, but he pushes down those feelings because Carlos wants him to beg, so by God he will beg until his voice is raw with it.

“Please Carlos, please please please, I need it, I need you, I need you to touch me, I need to come, please, Carlos, please.”

On another occasion, Carlos might have made him go on longer, might have made him ask for specifics, made him admit to his deepest, filthiest desires, the ones he hardly dared to speak aloud, but between the blindfold and the drawn-out teasing, Cecil is desperate and he senses that Carlos has taken pity on him, because he presses his cock against Cecil’s and begins to grind, the circular motions rubbing all his sweet spots at once, and he knows he won’t last much longer.

Sure enough, only a few minutes pass before Cecil learns what it feels like to come blindfolded, how much more intimate it is arch his back and tighten his muscles and cry out in pleasure when Carlos’ touch is all his senses know.

Carlos keeps rutting against him until he whines with over-sensitivity, and as soon as the sound leaves his lips Carlos pulls away, and he must start touching himself because moments later, he hears a tissue leaving the box followed by a quiet gasp. 

When Carlos touches him next, he is gentle with him, untying the blindfold swiftly and kissing Cecil softly on the forehead, cheeks, and nose, and Cecil learns what his boyfriend’s face looks like after twenty minutes deprived of it. He smiles softly and basks in the tender attention the scientist lavishes on him.

“All right, sweetheart?” Carlos asks, his voice back to its usual cadence.

Cecil makes a strangled affirmative noise.

“You need water. Here.” Carlos helps Cecil sit up, cleans him gently with a towel, and wraps a blanket over his shoulders before reaching for the water bottle he placed on the night stand hours earlier, anticipating Cecil’s needs, caring for Cecil when he forgets to care for himself. Cecil sips the water gratefully, surprised by his own thirst, and while he does so, Carlos strokes his hair softly, the touch light and soothing.

“Well? How do you like the blindfold?” he asks when Cecil has downed most of the bottle.

“Let’s do that again. Soon.”

Carlos laughs at the demand in his voice. “We will, darling. We will.”

And he turns the lights out, and they settle into sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

The next neat thing Cecil learns while blindfolded is how is it feels to kneel with his thighs on his heels, wrists secured behind his back with rope, tied tight enough to keep him from uncrossing them, but not so tight that they turn his hands purple and pulsing from lack of circulation. He’d asked for a gag, too, but Carlos promised he had something better in mind, and Cecil trusts him, and so here he sits, the bedroom carpet slowly leaving impressions on his knees.

He can hear nothing but the sound of his own breathing, the sound of his own heartbeat, pounding so rapidly that he wonders if it might burst and flood his insides with blood, an ocean of crimson contained within his chest. He thinks briefly of asking Carlos if this is scientifically possible, but then Carlos runs a hand through his hair and Cecil gasps, surprised at his boyfriend’s proximity, unaware that he is inches from Cecil until suddenly he is there, body heat close enough to be sensed.

Cecil can smell him too, a mix of lilac laundry detergent and store brand body wash, with hints of hazelnut coffee and disinfectant from the lab. He has never noticed the details of his boyfriend’s smell before, wants to tell Carlos about this discovery, to ask if this is an effect of the blindfold, too, but now is not the time and he catalogs it away for later. Carlos speaks, softly.

“Look at you, my pretty little slut. All dressed up for me in a blindfold and rope. You’re going to do anything I ask you to, aren’t you?”

Cecil nods, for they have agreed he will not speak unless granted permission, a challenge for a talkative man who makes his living with words, but there is something thrilling in it, too. Cecil’s power is in his voice, and to hand that power willingly to Carlos—well, the possibilities are enticing.

“I could do anything to you right now—I could hit you, or fuck you, or _experiment_ on you.”

This last suggestion makes Cecil’s cock twitch, and he bites his lip to try to contain himself.

“But I’m not going to do any of those things, Cecil. Instead, I’m going to do this.”

Carlos reaches down and twists a nipple, hard. Cecil squeals, barely containing a string of curse words. His nipples are sensitive, even through layers of clothing, and now he is naked, with nothing to separate him from Carlos’ calloused fingertips. 

He hears a rustling of clothes and knows that Carlos has squatted down in front of him.

“I’m sorry, did that hurt?” His tone is sugary sweet.

Cecil nods again.

“Good.”

Carlos twists the other nipple, and Cecil squirms, spitting out aborted half-words, stuttered syllables devoid of actual meaning.

“Careful, now,” Carlos says softly, darkly. “You wouldn’t want to speak without permission, would you, Cecil?”

Cecil shakes his head no.

“I’m holding you to that, sweetheart. Otherwise there will be…consequences.”

Cecil shivers.

Carlos isn’t done with his poor nipples; he brings his mouth down over one and pulls his teeth lightly over the sensitive flesh. He alternates between sucking and grazing his teeth over it, his thumbs rubbing circles over Cecil’s hipbones, close enough to his cock to make him eager but far enough to provide no relief, only tantalizing sensation.

Carlos switches his mouth to the other nipple, and Cecil’s breathing is heavy, his eyes rolling back in his head although Carlos can’t see it. When Carlos releases his nipple with sound like a gentle pop, Cecil breathes a sign of relief, until Carlos puts his mouth on Cecil’s shoulder and _bites_.

“Oh, fuck!” Cecil blurts out, then pulls in his lips, wanting to clap a hand over his mouth in mortification but unable to with his hands still tied. Carlos yanks the hair on the back of his head, causing Cecil’s back to arch and drawing whimpers of pain from his throat.

“What did I say about speaking out of turn?”

Cecil doesn’t answer, and Carlos releases his grip on his hair, causing Cecil’s head to fall forward, neck bent, and he does not bring it back up, allowing himself to remain in a submissive position in hopes that this will appease Carlos a little. Instead, Carlos stands.

“Such a filthy mouth you’ve got on you. Do you know what happens to sluts with filthy mouths?”

Cecil shakes his heading, swallowing.

“Well, you’re about to find out.”

Carlos walks past Cecil’s left shoulder, sock feet on carpet barely making a sound, and when he returns he stands behind Cecil, leaning over to speak in his ear.

“If you need to stop, just squeeze this.” His voice has none of the dangerous confidence of his dominant persona, only the sincere concern of a sweet, adoring boyfriend. Something is placed gently into Cecil’s bound hands, and it feels like rubber, and he nods once to let Carlos know he understands.

Carlos returns to stand in front of him, his in-scene bravado restored as though it had never left.

“I know that pretty mouth of yours can be put to better use than spewing out profanity. Open.”

Cecil drops his jaw obediently. Carlos steps closer and undoes his zipper.

“Keep still.”

And Carlos’ hand is in his hair again, and Cecil learns what it feels like for Carlos to shove his cock unceremoniously into Cecil’s mouth, pressing against the back of his throat and nearly gagging him. This was what he meant by “something better,” Cecil realizes, and he can hardly say he disagrees.

Carlos fucks Cecil’s mouth roughly, thrusting in and out with no regard for Cecil’s comfort or the drool running down the side of his face. It shouldn’t feel so good to be used, to be treated as only a warm, wet hole for Carlos get off in, but for all its vulgarity, it brings a kind of peace, an absence of responsibility that is relaxing, freeing.

Cecil has lost all sense of time, has no idea how long Carlos abuses his mouth and throat before finishing, coming in hot spurts down Cecil’s throat, and he swallows instinctively, obediently, until Carlos pulls out abruptly, leaving Cecil feeling oddly empty.

“You liked that, didn’t you?” says Carlos, breathless. Cecil nods.

“Say it. Say out loud how much you liked me fucking your mouth.”

“I liked it,” Cecil says, his voice rough and broken from the abuse his throat has endured.

“What did you like?”

“I liked you fucking my mouth.”

“That’s right, you did. What do you want now?” Cecil says nothing. “Answer me.”

“I want to come.”

“Do you think you deserve to come?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

The _sir_ is unprecedented, but Carlos hums in approval, so Cecil feels no embarrassment.

“Call me sir again and I might just decide that you do.”

“Yes, sir.”

Carlos runs the pad of his thumb along Cecil’s lower lip, which has swollen slightly and is tender, and Cecil exhales lightly at the sensation.

“Such a pretty slut,” Carlos says. “I think I will let you come.” And then his hands are behind Cecil’s back, and whatever he’s been holding is removed, and the ropes around his wrists are falling away, but he keeps them crossed, for he has not been instructed to move them.

“You’re going to get yourself off, Cecil. And I’m going to watch.”

He hears the sound of Carlos’ body settling on the bed, and he learns how his wrists flex and stretch after being tied up. He learns how it feels to bring his hand to his cock blindfolded, and to have Carlos hand him a tissue to keep him from making a mess of the carpet, and he learns how his fingers shake with the thought that Carlos is watching him even as he is not watching himself.

Cecil is not gentle with himself, demonstrates no technique. He is sloppy, desperate, pumping up and down his cock quickly and arrhythmically. Carlos makes no sound, and Cecil has a flash of panic that he’s left Cecil all alone, is not in the room with him at all, but then he hears him inhale and relaxes.

It doesn’t take long before Cecil falls over the edge, sputtering nonsense syllables again, gasping for air as he comes. When his hand falls, exhausted and shaking, to his side, Carlos kneels beside him again, untying his blindfold and flooding his vision with color and light, and he shuts his eyes for a moment. Carlos waits until he opens them to help him up to standing.

“All right, love?”

“Very.” His voice is still raspy, throat sore, and he realizes that more talking might not be the best choice, for the show must air tomorrow whether he’s had sex the night before or not, and he tells Carlos as much. “I should maybe not talk for a bit.”

“Of course, darling.” And then there is water, and hot tea with lemon, and a sweet scientist holding Cecil in his lap, Cecil’s head falling onto his shoulder lazily. When his throat is feeling better, he speaks.

“Carlos?”

“Yes, love?”

“You said at the beginning you had something better than a gag in mind.”

“Yes.”

“But you only did that when I broke the rule about speaking.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What would you have done if I hadn’t?”

Carlos laughs warmly. “Honey, I know you. I knew you wouldn’t be able to keep quiet the whole time. Your choice of language was delightfully unexpected, but I knew you’d crack eventually.”

Cecil glares, and folds his arms across his chest petulantly, but he isn’t offended, not really, and he can’t exactly argue Carlos’ point. He is not quiet during sex, never has been, has always made his feelings known in the bedroom the same way he does on the radio and in his everyday life. His gaze lands on the bedside table, and it is only then that he notices the bright yellow object sitting on it.

“Carlos?” he says again.

“Yes, Cecil?”

“Is that…?” He gestures vaguely toward the rubber duckie.

“Oh. Uh, yes. That’s what you were holding. It squeaks.”

Cecil bursts into laughter so rambunctious that it is nearly silent, his whole body shaking with it.

“Hey, scientifically speaking, having a safe word, verbal or nonverbal, that will dissolve sexual tension is the strongest choice for ending a scene, because it allows both partners to more easily—”

Cecil puts a finger over the scientist’s lips. “I love it,” he says softly.

“Oh. Well. Good. I’ll use it again then.”

Cecil thinks that he will never see rubber ducks the same way again.


	3. Chapter 3

At long last Cecil learns while blindfolded the taste of a gag in his mouth, nothing elaborate or fancy, nothing that could be found in adult store, just an old scarf covered in coffee stains and torn at the edges courtesy of Khoshekh’s kittens, a scarf he would never wear again but hadn’t gotten around to throwing out yet, and which has now been re-purposed for muffling the multitude of sounds trying to escape his mouth as Carlos traces figures across his shoulder blades, making him shiver.

He is bent over the bed, ass in the air, one of his favorite positions for both the vulnerability it forced and the depth of penetration it allowed. He rests on his elbows, rope dyed purple with a washing machine and a night’s chanting in a long-dead tongue binding his wrists and wrapping loosely up each arm. This is mostly for Carlos’ benefit, for he loves the look of the coarse purple rope against Cecil’s soft brown skin. Still, Cecil has to admit that there is a certain pleasure in the feeling of rope scratching against his forearms, a promise of roughness to come.

His rubber duck rests on the bed an inch from his fingertips. Cecil knows himself, knows his fists will clench instinctively during the impact play to come, and he does not want to send Carlos false signals to stop, so instead they leave his squeaky stop sign just out of his grip but always within reach. He has another cue, too, in case he fails to reach it, three stomps for stop and two for slow down and one for go. Cecil loves that his boyfriend is so diligent, is prepared for any situation, as a good scientist always is, that he cares enough for Cecil to worry about _what ifs_.

Carlos’ hands are not on his shoulders for long, moving instead to grope his ass in a way that is nothing short of filthy, and if Cecil wasn’t hard before, he certainly is now, moaning muted sounds into the pink-and-orange polka dot scarf between his teeth.

“You think that’s good?” Carlos says, a hint of a taunt in his voice. “Just you wait, little slut.”

And he brings his hand down on Cecil’s ass, sharply but not enough to prompt more than a slight sting, and Cecil knows that Carlos is good at this, that he has practiced on others before him, and Cecil should be bothered by this, maybe, but instead he feels a heat in his groin at the thought of Carlos spanking someone else, of him getting to watch. This is an intriguing and unexpected thought, and he files it away for future discussion.

Herein lies Carlos’ expertise: the intensity with which he strikes Cecil’s bare ass increases so gradually that Cecil hardly notices, like an orchestra’s slow crescendo or the gradual incline of the hiking trails just outside of town. He keeps his strikes balanced like yoga stretches, maintaining perfect symmetry in the number of times he brings his hand down on either side of Cecil’s ass, but keeping no predictable rhythm so that Cecil can never relax, never anticipate the next moment of stinging pain. His skin is slowly turning pink, he’s certain, and he knows that Carlos will enjoy that, too.

For all that it is torture, it is heaven, too, and Cecil could stay contentedly like this forever, until the sun encroached upon the earth and wiped out all the living things beneath, but Carlos is not done with him, oh no, he is not leaving his work at just his hands, and soon he walks away, leaving Cecil whimpering in a way that seems detached from him, high-pitched and keening and noisy even through his gag. Carlos chuckles darkly.

“You’re so desperate, darling. Pathetic, some might say. Lucky for you I find it endearing. I’ll give you what you want if you can be patient for another minute.”

Cecil is not sure that he can, but he wriggles his hips into a more comfortable position and waits. A moment later he learns what leather sounds like as it cuts through air, swung in loops in Carlos’ capable hands, and Cecil inhales so sharply that his throat tightens up and he coughs once, twice.

In an instant Carlos is at his side, leaning close to his face. “Are you okay, sweetheart? Do you need to stop?” Cecil shakes his head, and Carlos fusses with his gag, double-checking that it’s positioned safely. Cecil brings his foot down once to confirm he’s okay, and Carlos kisses his cheek gently, a momentary break from the scene. Then he returns to his previous activity, and Cecil hears the ominous whoosh from behind him once more.

“Do you know what this is, Cecil?”

Cecil nods. In their last talk, he had practically salivated at thought of Carlos using such an instrument on him, wanted to know what it felt like to absorb a pain much deeper than a simple spanking could give him. Carlos hadn’t told him he’d purchased such an item, but Cecil is certain that’s exactly what he’s done, a surprise for Cecil that has his blood pumping with nervous excitement.

“It’s an exceptionally well-crafted flogger, sweetness, in your favorite shade of purple. Beautifully balanced and perfect for turning that perky little ass of yours an even sweeter shade of pink.” He runs his fingertips softly over Cecil’s abused skin, and Cecil shudders at the contrasting touch, his cock twitching in anticipation.

And when Carlos brings down the flogger, tears spring to his eyes, half a dozen knotted leather strands smacking his already-stinging skin, and Cecil gasps so hard he almost chokes again, the pain more intense than anything he’s experienced at Carlos’ hands before, although he’s certainly gotten worse during municipal re-education.

“Give me a signal,” Carlos says, and Cecil stomps twice. “Do you want anything undone?” Cecil shakes his head, and Carlos rubs his shoulders gently. Cecil breathes steadily, concentrating on Carlos’ touch, and after a moment or two, he aches for the flogger again, his arousal demanding satisfaction, and he stomps once for _continue_ , and Carlos takes his hands from Cecil’s shoulders and spanks him a few extra times for good measure.

The flogger comes down three more times, and Cecil makes noises partway between grunts and moans, and after the first strike Cecil presses his hips back just a bit, just enough to lean into the punishing thwack of the leather, and Carlos chuckles again at his eagerness. But he must know Cecil can’t handle much more, and after he stops, he squeezes Cecil’s ass and murmurs against his ear.

“Don’t think I’m done with you yet.”

Cecil hears the drawer of the bedside table rattle and Carlos slap aside the wriggling tentacles that protect its contents. And then Cecil learns Carlos’ familiar touch in unfamiliar circumstances, lube scented like sandalwood slicking Carlos’ finger as it slides inside him, as he slides in a second, and then a third, stroking lazy circles around Cecil’s prostate, Cecil’s hips thrusting backward without instruction from his brain, his body overruling his nervous system to beg for more sensation, more friction from his gorgeous, talented boyfriend.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” says Carlos simply, and Cecil lets out his loudest moan yet, weak in the knees and desperate for the feeling of Carlos inside him.

He does not have to wait long, Carlos sliding slowly, agonizingly into him, and Cecil whimpers and tightens his fists, wanting to beg for more but silenced by his gag.

Carlos thrusts like he spanked, starting slowly and building to an unforgiving pace, the mattress squeaking as Carlos fucks Cecil into it, and Cecil grinds desperately, sloppily against the bed until Carlos pulls him back by his hips, thrusts his cock deeper than Cecil though possible, and a few soft tears fall down his face, but he does not want to stop, oh no, so he leaves the duck where it is and rides the sensations Carlos gives him, lets himself surrender to instinct and to trust in his perfectly imperfect scientist, and when Carlos comes inside him it feels like going home, in a way Cecil cannot really articulate. As his boyfriend pulls out and runs a towel over the cum dripping its way down Cecil’s inner thighs, Cecil learns that a blindfold not only increases his senses of hearing and touch and smell and taste, but also his sense of how much he is loved, how much he is cared for in terrifying world where love is all that grounds us.

Carlos gives him options, then. “Do you want to stay tied up to finish?” Cecil shakes his head, and before he finishes the action, the gag is falling away, and then the blindfold, and finally he watches as Carlos’ hands untie the rope around his wrists. Cecil stands up shakily, and Carlos guides him until he’s lying on his back, head on a pile of fluffy pillows, violet eyes gazing dreamily up at his boyfriend.

Carlos lightly rubs the places on his arms and wrists where the rope has left red marks. “I’ll get balm for this in a minute,” he says. “But first, how do you want to finish?”

Cecil’s brain is too clouded with sensation, his body too sensitive from stimulation for this question to do anything but overwhelm him, and he whispers “I don’t know,” and fears the weakness, the indecisiveness he feels as he says it, but Carlos does not falter, wraps one hand around Cecil’s cock and his mouth around the tip, and he sucks and strokes, and it only takes a brief moment before Cecil is coming hard, the hardest he has in recent memory, and Carlos swallows around him and pulls off gently, stroking Cecil’s hair and slowing his racing pulse.

“You did so well, my love,” he says, and then, “You need water, and balm for your wrists and your ass. Will you be okay without me for a moment?”

Cecil nods, but is surprised by the loss he feels when Carlos walks away. He breathes deeply, and Carlos fetches the aforementioned items from the desk on the other side of the room, where the flogger now rests, motionless but intimidating, like a hunting dog asleep in front of a fire.

Carlos flips him over and rubs something cool and soothing against his ass, then flips him again to apply it in circles around his wrist and plant little, fluttering kisses against his mouth. He holds an open water bottle to Cecil’s lips, and he drinks deeply until Carlos takes it away. He’s brought a protein bar, too, Cecil’s favorite kind, from the Ralph’s, the kind flavored like vanilla and spider silk. He eats it slowly, silently, with his head on Carlos’ shoulder and Carlos’ hand on his knee, just like that night outside the Arby’s, and he has never felt happier, more glowing, more contented and relaxed than he is now, pressed against the person he loves most in the world, loved and cared for and undeniably real.

When he has finished eating and put the wrapper aside, he wraps his arms around Carlos’ waist and wriggles closer to him. “I love you so much, Carlos.”

“I love you, too, _cariño_.”

And they stay like that for a long while, until the moon is covered by clouds and the stars and mysterious lights that blink in the black-violet night sky are all that illuminates their little bedroom, and in a tiny part of a vast and unknowable universe, the two of them have each other, and in this moment and for all eternity, that is the only thing they need.


End file.
